


Conviction

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Siren (Video Games)
Genre: Breathplay, Dom/sub Undertones, Jealousy, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, No Safeword, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest, Sibling Rivalry, Twincest, Twins, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-27 09:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Shiro looks down at Kei before him: brother, leader, failure; and he reaches out as if with someone else’s hands, and he catches his hold around the quiver of air in Kei’s throat, and he starts to squeeze." Shiro's impulses take control of him, and Kei follows his lead.





	Conviction

Shiro didn’t mean to choke Kei.

That wasn’t part of his plan. All he had wanted to do was have a conversation, was to speak with the brother he barely knows who wears the same face Shiro sees every morning in his bathroom mirror. There are plans to make, after all, discussions that must be had; and Shiro has always been good at facing reality, however unpleasant it may be, even when it leads him directly to the twin who has been so wholly absent for the last decades of his life. So it’s Shiro who calls Kei to the clinic, and Kei who steps in through the front door with those trembling hands and those wide eyes that Shiro remembers so well from their long-distant childhood; and it’s Shiro who urges them into the quiet of a back room where they can have the conversation that must be had before the ceremony commences.

Shiro doesn’t even remember what it is that frayed through the last of his tight-wound temper. Maybe it was some whimper in Kei’s throat, maybe it was some frantic flutter of Kei’s lashes; maybe it was just the fear radiating off him so clearly, the trembling inability to face reality that Shiro has always been so repulsed by, has always wanted to protect. But Shiro’s not the one wearing the weight of those dark robes, and Shiro’s not the one the village is looking to to lead them; and maybe it’s that, in the end, that brings his hands up, that shoves his weight forward to knock hard against Kei’s shoulders, as if Shiro might be able to transfer some measure of his own strength into his brother’s body if he just can just push hard enough. But Kei doesn’t resist, doesn’t fight back; he just collapses, stumbling backwards and tripping over the smooth of the floor and falling, as clumsy now in his panic as he always used to be when they were children, in that hazy past before Shiro learned to draw a line between  _him_  and  _me_ , before he laid out the barrier between their existences and built a brick wall through his psyche to mark it. Shiro follows him down, pulled forward onto his knees over Kei as if there’s a string between them, as if the connection he has spent so long ignoring is tightening its hold on him at last to deny him even the space to breathe in Kei’s absence; and Shiro can feel the restraint within him give way as his knees hit the floor, as if the impact of his landing is enough to jar the last structure of clarity from his mind. He looks down at Kei before him: brother, leader,  _failure_ ; and he reaches out as if with someone else’s hands, and he catches his hold around the quiver of air in Kei’s throat, and he starts to squeeze.

Shiro isn’t sure what his plan is. There’s no end goal to this, no question of the consequences or the result in his mind; it’s enough that he knows that he can, that he knows he will get away with this, that is sufficient to lift his hands and bring them crushing down against the line of Kei’s neck before him. Shiro sets his fingers into place as if he’s performing a surgery, as if he’s settling his grip to steadiness before committing to action; and then he tightens his hold, and presses at Kei’s throat, and feels the tremor of the other’s breathing catch around the weight of his fingertips against Kei’s windpipe.

Shiro wonders, later, what it was he meant to do. Was he trying to scare Kei, was he trying to shock awake some long-buried strength via simple self-preservation? Did he want to see surrender in his brother’s eyes, did he want to see acknowledgment of his own power reflected back in that mirror image of his own expression? Maybe he really does want Kei’s life in his hands, maybe he really does hate him; perhaps it’s in pursuit of revenge, some fragment of bitter jealousy breaking free to lay claim to Kei’s existence, to steal life from his brother the same way Kei stole all the possibilities of leadership away from Shiro’s competent hold. But in the moment Shiro’s not thinking of any of that; he’s caught in the immediacy of it, in the clarity of sensation as if he’s feeling it in someone else’s body, as if he’s documenting the details of the experience from some outside narrative. The strain of Kei’s throat, the motion of his windpipe trying desperately, futilely, to resist the pressure of Shiro’s fingers; the thud of his heartbeat landing like a hammer against Shiro’s thumb, like it’s trying to press itself close against the other’s skin. The heat of Kei’s body, the flush of warmth against Shiro’s tense palms as Kei’s skin goes hot with the blood rising to a bruise under the pressure; the sound of his breathing coming ragged and raw as an open wound against the air. Shiro notices himself blink, notices the careful weight of his lashes over his eyes as he considers the situation, as he squeezes harder against Kei’s neck; and it’s then that Kei gasps an inhale, the sound dragging to desperation in the inside of his chest, and Shiro realizes all at once that Kei is hard beneath the weight of Shiro kneeling atop him.

Shiro looks up. Kei’s throat is bruising under his hold, his fingers are printing themselves to a line of pressure against Kei’s neck; but Kei isn’t fighting, isn’t resisting at all beyond the involuntary motion of his chest as he struggles for air. He’s not looking at Shiro either; his head is tipped back, left to weight against the floor as slack as the damp, dragging part of his lips, and his eyes are half-lidded into shadow, as if he’s already slipped sideways and into unconsciousness under the press of Shiro’s hands. Shiro shifts his grip fractionally, bears down harder on Kei’s throat; and Kei’s lashes flutter, Kei’s throat gives up a moan of heat at the same time his hips jerk up to grind helplessly against Shiro’s. Shiro can feel the purr of heat low in his abdomen, can feel the friction against him as a surge of relief; and it’s then he realizes that he’s hard too, that his cock is aching strain against the front of his pants.

Shiro wonders about that, about the sudden reality of his own arousal as if it was called into being by Kei’s own. Is it their lost-ignored, long-maintained connection as twins? Is his brother’s want so close to his own that he’s rising to echo it, that he can’t help but mirror back Kei’s desire from this close up? Maybe it’s just the power of it, maybe he just likes the feel of Kei’s life in his hands, of the weight of every breath Kei takes sliding past the wall of his fingers. It doesn’t matter, Shiro doesn’t care; whatever the reason, the reality is Kei quivering under him, passive and slack and shaking with desire, and his own arousal is climbing up the length of his spine to settle at the back of his skull, to urge him on to more without hesitation or delay.

Shiro squeezes harder, just to test the give of Kei’s throat; and Kei spasms beneath him, his whole body twitching as if Shiro has just electrocuted him. Shiro’s heart speeds, his breathing catches; and he slides his hands in one atop the other, fitting his grip into a collar around Kei’s throat as he rocks himself forward to pin the other to the floor beneath his weight. Shiro presses his knee hard at Kei’s thigh, bracing himself so he can fit the other in between his brother’s knees to brace him still against the floor; and then he starts to move in truth, tightening and easing his grip in a rhythm he can feel answered by the flush of Kei’s cock going hotter and harder against his thigh with every movement of his fingers. Kei tenses in time with Shiro’s fingers, falls slack with their release; and Shiro fixes his gaze on Kei’s face, on the flutter of his lashes and the part of his lips, and he milks heat from Kei’s throat with brutal efficiency, wringing moans of pleasure from the other’s lips that go voiceless, spent as silent pressure against the weight of his palms. Shiro squeezes, and presses, and urges Kei to more; and then Kei’s back arches, his thighs jerk against Shiro’s pinning his hips to the ground, and Shiro can feel him come as clearly against the grip of his hands on Kei’s throat as in the twitch of the other’s cock against his thigh. Shiro looks down at Kei under him, the flush on his cheeks and the pant of desperate air at his lips as he shudders himself into pleasure under his brother’s hands; and then Shiro takes a breath, and tightens his grip, and crushes Kei’s throat closed as he braces himself at the floor to grind hard against the other’s hip.

Kei doesn’t fight back. That’s the headiest part, Shiro thinks: how passive he is, how slack he goes even as Shiro’s fingers tighten to steal the last hiss of breath from his lips. He just lies there, hot and trembling and voiceless under Shiro’s fingers while Shiro presses down against him to find the satisfaction of his own orgasm. Shiro can see Kei’s neck bruising under his hold, can see purple and blue rising to outline the weight of his fingers; he can feel the tremors of pressure against his grip as Kei’s chest spasms with a need for air that he’s denying it, that his own hands won’t give way to. Kei’s lashes flutter, Kei’s gaze drifts -- and lands on Shiro’s, coming into clear focus on his brother’s face for the first time since Shiro shoved him to the floor. His lips shift, with speech or attempt at breathing, Shiro doesn’t know which; and Shiro rocks up onto his knees, and lets the weight of his body bear down the harder on Kei’s throat, as if to underline his intent. Kei’s gaze flickers, his attention sliding up and away again; Shiro can see the dizziness of asphyxia settling behind his gaze, can see the blur of confusion stealing Kei’s focus away from his face. Kei’s lips are still parted, still open as if to gasp for air Shiro won’t let him have; Shiro can see the color of them fading, can see the red starting to dim to the shadows of blue as Kei’s face starts to darken, flushing with the effort of his body to stay alive, to deliver oxygen when he has no available source for more. Kei’s fingers jerk at his side, his body twitches underneath Shiro’s; and Shiro can feel his orgasm crush over him like a wave, as if the force of his own pleasure is riding the involuntary tremors of Kei choking underneath him. He rides out the whole of it, lets each long pulse of tension course through him and smooth into the placid calm of aftershocks; and it’s only then, after all his heat is spent, that he rocks back against his knees, and lets his hold on Kei’s throat go.

Kei gasps for air, reflex seizing for oxygen to fill his aching lungs even as his throat swells with the print of Shiro’s fingers against it. Shiro can hear the sound of the inhale rattle in Kei’s throat, can hear the way it catches and sticks even before Kei twists sideways to hack and cough and choke for air against the floor. He settles against his knees, steadying his balance as Kei trembles before him, and when he shuts his eyes it’s to better hear the weight of Kei’s breathing, to hear the ragged, bloody edges under the sound like Shiro’s fingerprints have torn their way into the inside of the other’s chest to leave their mark there. It goes on for some time, long minutes of Kei panting and gasping and coughing; and finally it softens, desperation giving way to the rough edges of relief, and Shiro opens his eyes to look at Kei in front of him.

Kei is curled in on his side, twisted to lie half-atop the arm he has angled beneath him and with his face still turned down against the cool of the floor as he pants for air. His face is flushed, his mouth is wet; his eyes are shut, his lashes lying heavy against his cheeks like he can’t find the strength to lift them. Shiro can see the ring of bruises around the other’s neck, the prints of his hands like a collar against Kei’s skin under the pale edge of his high-necked robes; he can feel a flicker of heat course through his veins at the thought of it, like some part of him is stirring to life in answer to the picture of his fingerprints against Kei’s flesh. Kei doesn’t move as Shiro looks at him, doesn’t so much as twitch to lift a hand or glance back at the other; he’s as still now as he was before, as still as he was even while Shiro’s grip tightened to deprive him of air to fill his straining lungs.

“Why?” Shiro hears himself ask. His voice is clear against the space of the room; it cuts cleanly over the strain of Kei’s breathing to lay claim to audibility. Kei stirs, his lashes flutter; Shiro waits until Kei is looking back at him, his gaze too shadowed to read but still clearly fixed on his brother’s face. “Why didn’t you fight?”

Shiro can see the effort in Kei’s throat as he swallows, can watch the grimace of hurt flicker over the other’s features as bruised skin shifts with the motion. Kei flinches and huffs a breath; Shiro just keeps watching, waiting for the other’s answer with as much patient curiosity as he has ever mustered for anything. Finally Kei shifts, turning over onto his back to rasp for air as he looks up at Shiro still kneeling over him; his arm is draped over his stomach, his whole body heavy and weighted down with pleasure or pain or exhaustion or a combination of all three together.

“I knew--” Kei starts, and then stops abruptly to cough hard, like he’s trying to clear his throat of the print of Shiro’s touch against it. It doesn’t help. “I knew you would stop.”

 _You didn’t_ , Shiro wants to say. I  _didn’t know I would stop._  But Kei is gazing up at him with innocent, foolish trust behind his eyes; and Shiro closes his mouth, and presses his voice to restraint instead of setting it free.

After all these years of envying Kei his position, it’s a pleasure to finally be an object of faith, however undeserved.


End file.
